A Room with a View
by Gene's Gilly
Summary: Gene struggles to come to terms with Sam's return, and with losing Alex.


**A Room with a View**

**Summary:** Gene faces the reality of Sam's return, and the possibility of losing Alex.

**Disclaimers:** Naturally I own neither Gene _et al_, nor LoM/A2A: they belong to Kudos and the BBC, alas... The flat in which Sam lives does not exist, although it is modelled on one that does. Any detail is purely imaginary.

**Acknowledgement:** Thanks to FirstDraft for the original suggestion, and for wonderful beta-ing.

**A/N:** The second of a trilogy. 'Dead Man Walking' precedes, and 'Everything but the Girl' follows.

* * *

The light of early morning barged through a gap in the curtains, slapping the face of the man asleep on the bed until he groaned in irritation and opened his eyes. 'Not a morning person' didn't begin to describe DCI Gene Hunt before his mind and body had had at least an hour to drag themselves into consciousness, and too often both had to function without such a period of grace, as his colleagues knew to their cost.

But this morning was Saturday, and his rest day, and Gene was going to stay right here. For a few moments he lay still, savouring the duvet's luxury and the warmth of summer daylight, feeling a deep contentment in the space between sleeping and waking when good dreams still have power and unpleasant realities are only half-remembered. Then the weight of the last four days smashed mercilessly around him and, although his body remained relaxed in the remnants of sleep, his mind wound itself up like a spring, tense to the point of breaking.

Sam was back, and everything had changed.

* * *

Carefully filling the kettle in the shining galley kitchen – he had to worry about waking someone up now, and couldn't go crashing around as before – the wool that had filled his head all week showed no sign of dissipating. For someone whose best and dearest friend had just returned from the dead, Gene Hunt was a very unhappy man.

Taking his tea into the living room, he hesitated. Should he sit here? Could he sit here? A week ago he would have flung himself into the deep sofa and watched the sun climb up the sky in lonely comfort, but now his self-confidence had gone. This wasn't his flat any more, and he was uncertain what he should allow himself to do. Slight panic settling in the pit of his stomach, he padded softly past Sam's bedroom – so recently his own – and back to where he now slept, the guest room for the not-quite-guest.

He drew back the curtains – slowly, making no sound – and opened the glass door that gave onto the fortieth-floor balcony. It was only just past dawn, and the night mist still lay heavy between the buildings stretched out below, refracting the light into patches of shifting colour as the sun started to burn it away. Shrouded in cool grey softness, the city slumbered in gentle anticipation: 'all bright and glittering in the smokeless air', its soaring towers caught the baby rays of sun and stroked Gene's face in gold. Leaning against the low parapet, he gazed across St Paul's, past the hidden Thames and Southwark, towards the openness of the South Downs and the vast sea beyond. His soul had gained some hard-won peace here and – with bitter irony – Sam's return threatened it all.

Gene loved Sam with all his heart, and Gene's heart did not love easily. Infuriating, arrogant, the biggest pain in the neck he had ever met, Sam had wound himself about Gene's life with his enthusiasm, infectious laughter and undoubted intelligence until the younger man had become the brother Gene had lost, the son he'd planned for – even, on occasion, the father he'd always wanted. Leaning more and more on his DI, they had given each other mutual support, buttresses resting at such crazy angles that the loss of one would inevitably cause the collapse of the other.

But, somehow, Gene hadn't collapsed when Sam had died: he'd staggered, as if drunk and blind, through the ensuing weeks, but the memory of seven years' friendship and a sense of responsibility for his friend's legacy had steadied him, hardening his wounded heart and making him stand up straight again. If he still wept for his loss, he did it in private, and none of his colleagues had guessed at the depth of his pain or the awfulness of his despair, especially after the 'jammy bugger' (Ray's words) had moved into Sam's Barbican flat, soaring high above the London streets in brutal splendour. It couldn't be sold – Sam wasn't legally dead – and Gene wanted to look after it, to snuff up Sam's scent from the towels and the curtains before it vanished for ever. For him it was something like a child: the last part of Sam still on the planet, to be tended and cherished. Full of Sam's possessions, it had originally been bought as a speculative investment in the late '70s but had become their London bolt-hole as the ragged move from Manchester gathered pace; something of a living shrine, he almost revered it. Annie, who had left all the travelling to and fro to Sam, felt she had no stake in the new property, and had chosen to rebuild her shattered world alone, flinging herself into work and continuing to set up the projects she would have handed over to her colleagues if all had gone according to plan. Drawing some comfort from the familiarity of the world she knew, she had elected to remain there rather than move without Sam to a world she didn't, deciding to join her old colleagues only when her duties in Manchester were complete, giving Gene her blessing as the guardian of the fragile, half-founded hope that Sam might still be alive. Here he had tended that plant, nurtured and encouraged it, only to find it regularly withered back to the root and, although it had proved remarkably resilient, it had grown into a twisted, gnarled thing.

But, half against his will, he was beginning to cope with the unending emptiness. Two years, they said the grieving process took – he could never imagine not grieving for Sam, but the edge of the pain was starting to blunt. It still stung, but a little less often than before, a little less deeply. Then, uninvited, Alex Drake had invaded his world and, with her meddling, questioning eyes and x-ray vision that cut into his soul, had picked away at his heart's scars until they bled and divulged his secret. Hyde-trained – she was too like Tyler to be anything else – she had immediately done something about it, getting Sam transferred back into the real world – back to him. So here he was, his friend restored, his emotions clamouring at the bars of their life-long cage and their gaoler utterly lost in the turmoil and conflict of what should have been unadulterated joy.

* * *

"Oh yes! I love the smell of diesel in the morning!" Sam strolled easily from his bedroom onto the balcony and cheerfully stretched in the morning light, wearing nothing but a careless towel and making Gene, sombre in black pyjamas, look positively overdressed. Despite his dark thoughts, Gene found Sam's smile contagious, and relaxed slightly.

"You're up early, Tyler. It's only – " he looked at his wrist, as if at a watch, "oh, eight thirty in the morning." The comment sounded like a criticism, but he hadn't meant it that way. He had partly lost the knack of talking to Sam, and wasn't sure where to find it again.

Sam grinned. "It's Saturday," he said, as if the information carried huge significance.

Gene looked at him. "Well done, Sammy boy! Any other world-shattering knowledge you'd like to share?"

"Saturday!" Sam repeated. And then, when Gene's blank face made it obvious he wasn't following, added, "Alex is coming to dinner!"

"Oh, Lord!" said Gene. "I tried so hard to forget. You've ruined my breakfast now."

Sam shook his head and smiled. He turned towards the living room. "I'll make the toast; you do the coffee."

Gene watched the precarious towel swing around Sam's legs. "You'd better put some clothes on. She might enjoy it too much otherwise."

Sam's knowing laughter grated on his ears. Alex hadn't seen Sam since that first night, when the three of them had followed their conversation and their tears into the daylight before sheer exhaustion had forced them to their separate beds. Sam had slept for eighteen hours straight – but, as Gene had reflected, it was a long way back from Hyde. Quickly changing the bed linen and grateful that he had kept up Sam's habit of having a regular cleaner, Gene had tipped his DI into his own bed, taking himself off to the spare room which – another habit adopted from Sam – he always kept made up for visitors. As time had crept on, he had watched his old friend sleep, toss and turn, the short hair becoming tousled by restlessness, but the face always returning to the peaceful half-smile that Gene knew so well. Moving quietly, he had removed things that were particular to him, that made this place his own, until it looked as near as he could make it to when Sam was last here, all those months ago.

Sam, reasonably enough, had not noticed, and Gene felt obscurely hurt that with the confidence and callousness of youth he had accepted it all. Living here, Gene had felt that a part of Sam was always with him, and being alone had ceased to mean always being lonely. Now that Sam had taken possession again, Gene knew that before long he would have to go back to his own flat, and he dreaded leaving all this behind.

He hated himself for reacting like this: never a man at ease with complex emotion, the feelings unleashed by Sam's return had taken Gene completely by surprise. He had longed for this moment – had even prayed to the God whose existence he had so often denied – but when it actually happened everything was far more complicated than he had anticipated. His joy at Sam's company was intense, almost physical, and he had wanted to devote himself totally to him in those first few days. But the younger man had had other ideas, phoning friends, wandering around the new building sites on the Isle of Dogs, and happily augmenting his already vast collection of LPs. In the long hours waiting for Sam to return home each day, Gene had had to face a devastating but inevitable truth: that he needed Sam and that Sam did not need him.

And to add to his strange misery, Alex, whom he had kept away from Sam all week out of some perverse desire to be able to call her his own for just a little longer, had talked to him of nothing but going home, now that Gene had his 'proper' DI back again. Her eyes had glowed as she spoke of seeing her daughter, and Gene's heart had shrunk as he listened, knowing that there would always be those in her life more important than him. He already realised that there was something special between her and Sam that excluded him completely, though whether it was romantic or merely professional he could not tell. As Sam had been all those years ago, until they had come to a deeper, richer understanding, she was as secretly precious to him as night and day, and he could already sense the terrifying Alex-sized emptiness she would leave behind.

From where he stood now, watching Sam engrossed in selecting records that he thought their guest would enjoy, and washed in the ironically bright morning's light, he knew he was going to lose them both, and he didn't know if he could bear it.

* * *

At four o'clock, Alex arrived. Sam answered the door, and Gene deliberately stayed on the sofa to give them their first moments of privacy. As the moments stretched into minutes, he realised that Sam had taken her onto the balcony, and he felt a wounding pang of bitterness. He had wanted to be the one to show her that glorious view, to see the wonder in her face as her eyes swept the London skyline for the first time, and Sam had not even thought to share it with him. He sighed softly. If this was how it was going to be, perhaps he should just be grateful for the times they had already had. That they were drawing to an end was simply the price to be paid for previous happiness.

But when he heard a muffled sob, instinct had him on his feet and across the room before he could think. He stopped at the picture window, and what he saw seemed to confirm his worst fears – and so soon. He had thought he might have a little more time. Sam and Alex stood, the perfect couple, arms wound tight around each other, her head buried in his shoulder. Sam stroked her hair, bent his head to hers, and then looked up as if he sensed someone watching. Whatever the moment that Gene had interrupted, it was intense and intimate and he was not a part of it, and he was about to turn quietly away when he realised that Sam had seen him.

The younger man's uncertain smile totally disarmed him, and he watched as Alex lifted her face to the light. What she did next floored him completely: she ran across the carpet and flung herself into his arms, folding her own around his neck and hugging him as if her heart would break. He heard the muted words, "Oh, Gene – Gene – " as she held him, and then, before he had time to react, she was backing away, looking ruffled and embarrassed and trying to straighten her hair as if nothing had happened.

He sniffed, signalling that he was not in the least affected by her actions. "Have I missed something, Bols?"

Alex cleared her throat. "No! No, Gene – it's – er – Sam – the last time we met…" She trailed off, and looked to Sam for help.

"It was a friend of ours," Sam said. "He threw himself off a building. A tall building – not as tall as this one, but – Alex saw him afterwards."

"Shit. Not a pretty sight, I take it? Sorry – sorry. What did he go and do that for?"

"No, actually he didn't have a scratch on him," Alex replied. "He'd lost someone he loved and he missed them. And we all missed him."

There was an awkward silence, finally broken by Sam. "I'll get some tea." He crossed into the kitchen, and cupboards began to open and close.

Gene looked at Alex, standing young and vulnerable in the middle of the room, seeming slightly lost after what had obviously been an emotional reckoning but not – and his heart rejoiced even as it went out to her – for the reasons he had suspected. "Tell me about this friend of yours, Bols. What was he like?"

She looked at him in surprise. "He was – young, clever, handsome – very like Sam, actually." She shook her head, as if at the memory. "It was ghastly – 'the brightest and the best' they called him at the funeral. All that talent and energy – just snuffed out."

"Like Sam," Gene repeated. He would never forget Ray's face as he'd walked towards him carrying the news of Sam's death. He had known it would be something terrible, from the sombre expression in the normally chirpy eyes, the deadness around the mouth, the greyness of his skin; but he had never for a moment imagined the true horror until Ray had started speaking, and words that at first had made no sense flew out and hit him in the gut like a bullet. For the first time in his adult life, the Gene Genie had been physically sick because of something other than alcohol. He had wanted to murder the whole world: if Sam was dead, why should anyone else live? He had tried to murder Ray, and it had taken several men to pull him off the innocent messenger. One of Gene's guiltier – and perhaps fonder – memories of those weeks was the tears he and Ray had shed together as they rebuilt their friendship and their lives in the absence of the whiz-kid from Hyde.

"What?"

Gene shook his head. Sam had come back to him – Alex had made Sam come back to him. He didn't know how, but he was sure it was true. But her friend was gone for good, and there was nothing he could do to repay her in kind. "I ought to thank you," he said clumsily. "For sorting out his transfer back into the land of the living, I mean. I – I am sorry about your friend."

"It was his decision. He had the right; it was his life, no-one else's. I think he was even happy – he was sort of smiling… Er, Gene – about earlier…" She hesitated, and he felt a sudden delicious delight at her discomfiture, waiting in something like glee as she struggled to find the right words. "Well, it doesn't mean – I mean, it does, but – just that losing friends… And you are a friend, Gene – really, I mean that." He felt his face darken and knew he was being unfair, but it didn't make any difference; he wanted this wretched woman in his bed, not just on his team, and he knew he would never have her.

"Good to know, Bols, good to know. Ah – tea!" Sam came in with the tray, and he turned away from her, aware that something important had been left unsaid but reluctant to pursue it, in case it was not to his liking. He could still feel the touch of her arms about his neck – not unconscious, or injured, but there because she wanted them there – and the memory caressed him with beautiful fire.

He drank his tea, and let the liquid burn his lips in mocking retribution.

* * *

After the meal, which they had prepared together in the crowded kitchen 'just like uni' according to Sam, they sat in the living room, wanting comfort rather than the grandeur of the view. As the wine and the evening wore on, Sam and Alex slipped to the floor, sitting propped up against cushions, while he – the old man of the trio – kept his seat on the sofa, feeling slightly left out of the quick-fire conversation. Alex slid out of her shoes, and her perfectly-manicured toes dug into the pile of the carpet. Sam followed suit but wisely – in Gene's opinion, who had seen Sam's bare feet once too often – kept his socks on. Gene, worried that he had absently grabbed a pair of socks with holes in them this morning, remained stubbornly shod.

He watched the two of them, distancing himself and imagining how he would view them if he were a stranger. He reckoned he had perhaps ten years on Sam, a few more on Alex – not old enough to be her father but too old to be her lover. He looked down on her head, splendid in bottled curls. Why did it always come to that with her? Why did he yearn for what would always be unattainable?

She was like a mischievous spiky sprite, flitting across his vision too quickly for him to focus, all at once sharp and soft, impossible to predict and impossible not to want. He shook his head, impatient at his foolishness. For all his bluster and banter, he felt very gently towards her, and he knew she should be treasured and cherished. In his maudlin mood, he glimpsed an indulgent old age, two people united by unspoken words and the ties of long, shared memories, children's children at the door; and he realised how poor and empty his life had become. Such was not for him, and just for that moment he wished it could be. In the meantime, he thought robustly, if Alex fancied a quick shag, he was definitely her man.

He brought himself back to the conversation, wanting to drink in every last drop of it.

"She is an amazing woman," Alex was saying. "When I saw her, she told me two things I had to remember."

"Yes?" Sam prompted, and from his intense expression, Gene realised that the subject of their discussion must be very important to him.

"She said you were the bravest man she'd ever known." Sam's eyes began to shine. "And – she said that if I ever saw you again, I was to tell you she knew you'd keep your promise."

Sam gasped. "Oh – she knew! I told you… Somehow, she knew."

Alex shook her head but remained silent. She settled back into the sofa, moving against Gene's leg as she wriggled to get comfortable. He froze, unwilling to do anything that would break the contact, and involuntarily raised his hand, letting it hover above her head as if in blessing before quietly withdrawing it. He became aware that Sam was watching him, but chose not to meet his eyes.

"So," said Alex into the silence, "what are you going to do now, Sam? You'll come back to the team, won't you? You see, if you come back, I might…" She seemed to realise who was sitting behind her, and stopped.

"Leave?" Gene finished her sentence curtly. "Why are my DIs always so anxious to leave?"

"Perhaps it's something to do with your subtle investigative methods, Gene," Sam said drily. "You know: beating up suspects, intimidating witnesses, lying in court?"

"I have not lied in court for years!" Gene hissed. He was furious with Sam for casting doubt on his integrity in front of Alex.

Sam held up his hands. "Sorry, Guv. Perhaps it's your scintillating team then, especially the sensitive Mr Carling, always to be relied upon to put the balanced, unbiased view." Alex chuckled wryly.

Gene leaned forward. There was some truth in what Sam was saying, but not enough to let it go unchallenged. "You will not criticise my team, DI Tyler. Not as long as you want to be a part of it."

"Oh come on, Gene," objected Alex. "Ray's not exactly 'Gentleman of the Month', is he? Neither are you, come to that. You're to blame, you know." She addressed this last remark to Sam.

"Me? Why?"

"Because this is your fantasy! You created them!"

Sam laughed and shook his head. "What can I say? Sorry!"

Gene shifted and made to get up. "If you two are going to go all Hyde on me, I'm getting more booze." He hesitated, waiting for one of them to prevent him, but neither did. "Fine!" he snapped, and stamped out.

But if he thought that leaving the room would let him leave the conversation, he was wrong. The peculiar design of this flat, with the kitchen leading directly off the living room, meant that he could escape physically, but remain within earshot of everything that was being said. As the talk continued, he realised that neither Sam nor Alex was aware of this fact, and he could not resist the delicious misdemeanour of eavesdropping.

"Where the hell did you get him from?" Alex's voice.

"Who?"

"You know who – your Gene 'drag 'em off by the hair and give 'em a good rogering' Hunt."

"He's not that bad, Alex, and you know it. And look at your reactions to him – inconsistency all over."

"Huh! No, I suppose that was a bit unfair. But is he who you really want to be, Sam?"

"Not at first. But now… I know he has his faults – "

"Oh, too right!"

" – but his heart's in the right place. And in spite of what he's done in the past, he is a man of honour."

"That's just about as damning as saying 'he meant well'! I'll grant you that he's – a very powerful personality."

Sam laughed. "That's one way of putting it. But there's something about him, isn't there? Something – oh, attractive, maybe?" Gene heard the mischief in his voice and winced, but didn't stop listening.

Alex's merry laughter cut him to the quick, and her next words were sharp and cruel. "Gene is an imaginary construct, Sam – _your_ imaginary construct – and you find him attractive? Oh please!"

"Actually," Sam replied thoughtfully, "I don't think this Gene is entirely mine. There's a – a kind of softness about him that's new. You must have brought that out."

"Gene Hunt – soft? Have you seen him with witnesses – worse, criminals? Have you seen him with Chris – well, maybe Chris deserves a kick occasionally. But soft…" She fell silent, and Gene felt the power of her scathing assessment. Was he really the man she painted? Was he really ignorant, crass, stupid and violent?

He leant against a cupboard, and wondered. He didn't see himself that way, but perhaps he could see why others did. He didn't want to be seen that way – but to a degree he had to be, or nothing would get done. He didn't want her to see him that way – but if he behaved towards her as he did everyone else – and there was no room in the force for favouritism – how else could she think of him? He was grateful for Sam's defence, lukewarm as it had been, but Alex's judgement had been damning.

Perhaps, he thought, that was why she was leaving? Perhaps all this talk of her daughter was a smokescreen – not that he doubted Molly's existence, but if Alex was using her as an excuse because Gene didn't treat her properly…

Sam had asked earlier in the day if he still had the Islington flat that Sam had bought for him as they prepared for the move down to London, and Gene had taken the question as a subtle request to leave. He could understand the fact that Sam didn't want him around – how could you bring back a bird if there was another bloke snoring in the next room? – but he hadn't wanted to go quite so soon. It seemed doubtful that Sam would return to the team, and if Gene wasn't living here, he would hardly see him. He had missed him so much, and here he was, missing him again and this time before he was even gone.

But – and his train of thought got itself back on its intended track – Alex and Molly could live in Islington. It was a shabby, beaten-up part of London, but Sam had assured him that in the next decade it would become one of the most sought after areas in town, and Gene could already see it happening. So it would be safe for Bolly and the kid, and he could find some bed-sit or something, and go and visit them, and Sam, and keep his family together…

He stopped, surprised. Since when had Alex become family? Since when had he thought he'd be granted visiting rights? Since when did he think she'd ever say yes?

Sam's voice brought him back to himself. "You know he's falling for you, don't you?" Gene dropped the unopened bottle of wine he'd been clutching, but by a miracle it fell on his foot and didn't break. He let out a yelp, and not only from the pain.

"Sorry!" he called, but there was no indication that they'd heard.

"Don't be silly," Alex replied, but he sensed just enough hesitation in her voice to make his stomach thrill. "He goes for hard northern women who'd slap him around, not posh mouthy southern birds."

"He once said he'd never go for gay-boy science," Sam replied, "but in the end he did."

Gene held his breath. He felt as if his whole life hung on the thread of Alex's next words.

"You do know that your record collection is completely up to date, don't you? That he kept on buying the music you liked, even after you'd gone? I noticed it earlier – I can't see Gene going for Siouxie and the Banshees and Gary Numan, but there they are."

Sam seemed to be as taken aback by the apparent _non sequitur_ as Gene was. "What? No – these are my albums – I bought them before I – died. Look – Depeche Mode, Genesis, Police – the best record collection in London, and worth a fortune in twenty years' time!"

"No, Sam, these aren't all your records. Look at this – _Juju_, released 1981. _Future Shock_, 1981. He'll be into Carly Simon, or Elton John – not post-punk and heavy rock. He's been keeping your collection going, in your memory. Didn't you notice?"

"No. Oh God, no. I'm sorry."

"You should apologise to him, not me. I wouldn't have realised, but for some reason Molly shares your weird taste in music. Perhaps you're right – perhaps my Gene is softer than yours – it doesn't surprise me at all, him doing this, but it didn't occur to you."

A long silence followed, and Gene thought he'd better move. They'd obviously done with him as a topic of conversation, and although he hadn't heard everything he might have wanted, what he had heard hadn't been entirely unkind. But as he opened a second bottle – he knew it was going to be a long night – Alex spoke again.

"If I were to stay… I can't stay – I can't because I've got Molly – but if I were to stay, Gene is the sort of man women dream about, isn't he? Strong, articulate, even good-looking in that rather run-over-by-a-heavy-lorry sort of way… If I were to stay, mind, which I am not."

"You'll break his heart."

"Would you?"

"What?"

"Have broken his heart? If you hadn't stayed?"

"I don't know. But he wasn't half in love with me. And I – " Sam paused, as if for effect, " – wasn't half in love with him."

Gene waited for the explosion, the vehement denial and the sharp-tongued reply, but they didn't come. Instead, Alex spoke gently, as if in sorrow. "They don't do 'Gene Hunts' in Hyde, do they?" Her voice was suddenly thick, and Gene put down the new bottle in case he dropped that, too. "If I could take him with me…"

"Back to 2008?"

"Back to 2008. He'd strip a few idiots of their pretensions." Sam laughed, as if he knew exactly which idiots she meant. "And Molly would love him – he's so different from – from anyone."

"Alex? Don't cry."

"It's no use fantasising any more than I already am, is it? It would never work anyway, and whatever you say he _is_ a dinosaur, and – and I'm just going to miss him so much…"

"Then make the most of him while he's here! Face it, Alex, you might never leave – but if you do, don't leave anything behind that you wish you'd done. Don't leave it too late!"

She sniffed, a rich, unladylike sound, as Gene finally brought in the wine.

"You two all right in here? Lots of noise but about as much sense as usual!"

"You weren't listening?" Alex looked horrified.

"I stopped listening at keyholes, Bolly, when Wanky Withers, who worked his way through almost the entire sixth form male and female, caught me in the girls' changing rooms in the third form. I've still got the scars; you can see them later, if you like."

For the second time in half an hour he couldn't meet Sam's eyes, knowing his lie was as transparent as glass; but Sam did not betray him.

* * *

The evening was drawing to a close and, in spite of an underlying melancholy, Gene felt a genuine sense of peace. He had spent today in the company of two people he valued beyond measure, and he was aware that he might never have such a chance again. Sam had gone to bed, but Gene did not want the day to end; with music playing softly in the background, he stood with Alex on the balcony and drank in her presence and the warm summer air, watching the silent city as it dressed itself in night. Against his better judgement, and to some sniggering from Sam, Alex had persuaded him to take off his shoes and socks – which were not holed – and he felt a strange freedom as his ugly male feet caressed the cool flagstones.

She was very close to him, and he could feel her heat as the day cooled, but he didn't reach out and touch her for fear of breaking the moment. When he spoke, his voice was almost inaudible in the quiet dusk. "Are we so bad, Bols, that you'd never want to stay?" She didn't reply, and he wondered if she was offended. He turned to look at her, and saw that her face was covered in tears, making her – if possible – even more beautiful. Gently, he wiped them away with delicate fingers. "Talk to me, Bolly."

"Staying – is not – an option," she said in a broken voice. "My daughter – I have to get back to my daughter. I have to see Molly again."

"But why does that mean you have to leave? Couldn't she come here? Couldn't she come to London – we'd find you somewhere better than Luigi's, and you could stay? I'd – you're a pain in the arse, Bols, but I'd like you to stay. And you know how big an admission that is from the Gene Genie."

Again, the physicality of her response took him by surprise: she put her arm round his waist, buried her head in his chest, and leant against him so that he felt he was on fire. It was several minutes before she spoke. "I can't, Gene. It doesn't work that way. I wish it did – I could drag Tyrannosaurus Hunt kicking and screaming into the twenty-first century!"

He put an arm around her shoulders, thin and insubstantial against him. He felt himself tremble slightly, and put it down to a sudden chill in the air. Words welled up, more words than he'd ever have speech for, more emotions than he'd ever known. "Alex," he whispered, unable to say more, his feelings threatening to drown him.

She drew him closer. "I know," she said, as if to a child. "I know."

As the dark gathered around them, Bryan Ferry's voice drifted out to fill the empty night. _Dance away the heartache, dance away the pain..._ Responding to the music in the strangeness of a surreal twilight, they danced barefoot together as the night grew cold.

* * *

It was still dark when Gene awoke, a ringing in his ears. His dreams had been full of Alex: her breath in his hair and her sweat on his skin, and he cursed whatever had woken him. The insistent noise came again, and he realised that it was the doorbell. He groaned. Sam was asleep in his room, Alex had curled up in Gene's bed, and he knew it was up to him, on the sofa and therefore nearest to the front door, to answer it.

He couldn't imagine who it might be at this hour, but he had knocked on enough midnight doors to know that it couldn't be good news. Steeling himself for the worst, he opened the door to Shaz, fresh off the night shift, holding the hand of a child.

She started to speak almost before he had realised who it was. "I'm so sorry, sir – there wasn't anyone else. That factory down by the Docks – the one they've been using the kids in for cheap labour? – this little girl was there, only they didn't find her till right late and there was no-one she could go home with. She'd been on her own for four days, sir – she was terrified! I tried calling DI Drake, but I couldn't get an answer and then I remembered she was coming here – I thought she could look after her, Guv, just till Monday. She hasn't got anywhere else to go, and we can't get her to talk, so I can't call anyone."

She paused, and Gene leapt in. "Bloody hell, Granger – it's nearly four in the morning, and you're presenting me with a kid? Can't you take her home to Chris? Leave her with Ray? What am I supposed to do with her?" He looked down at the girl, not much older than perhaps nine or ten years, and prepared to be kind, but the emptiness of her eyes chilled him. He thought of where she'd been found, and wondered what horrors she might have seen. He forced himself to speak. "Hello, sweetheart. What's your name?"

The girl's unwavering dead gaze met his own living one, and he shivered. He felt even colder when she spoke. "You're the Gene Genie, aren't you? I don't like you."

"Granger, what have you been saying about me?" he asked, trying to make light of the sick feeling in his stomach.

"Nothing, sir!" exclaimed the young policewoman. "I never told her who you were!"

"Well..." he paused, reluctant to admit this strange child to the flat but at a loss to know what else to do. "You'd better come in. Sam and Alex are asleep, so you'd better stay."

Shaz nodded and Gene softly shut the door behind them. When he walked into the living room, the girl was standing at its centre, looking curiously around with those absorbing, unfilled eyes. "So this is where Sam lives now."

He exchanged glances with Shaz. Something very odd was happening here. The girl's red dress was simple and poorly-made, but her sleek pale hair was neat and brushed, and her breathing was absolutely silent. Seconds crept by, afraid to be counted, before noises from the hall signalled that they had woken at least one of the sleepers, and a few moments later Sam's groggy face appeared at the door – mercifully, Gene found himself thinking, above a dressing gown rather than a towel.

The girl's head turned towards the newcomer like something out of _The Exorcist_. Sam gasped and grabbed the door jamb for support, and Gene froze in astonishment as his legs gave way and he sank untidily to the floor.

"You – you – " he mumbled inarticulately.

The girl suffered from no such handicap. "Hello, Sam," she said in a clear, bell-like voice. "I've been looking for you. I was locked away, but when Alex brought you back from – _Hyde_ – I came too. Me _and_ my Clown."

CONTINUED IN 'EVERYTHING BUT THE GIRL'


End file.
